


Conflict of Interests

by sadistically_sweet



Series: The Adventures of 'Little' Sherlock and 'Daddy' John. [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ageplay, Caregiving, Daddy Kink, Diapers, Dummies, Fluff, Gen, Infantilism, Other, Sherlock's 'Big' in this one guys, nappies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-05-31 14:57:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6474829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadistically_sweet/pseuds/sadistically_sweet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We all know the story, Sherlock's bored agai--wait, what? MOLLY'S the one who's bored?! </p><p>Oh, dear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wherein Molly Has a Bothersome Day

 

 

 

Molly Hooper sat at her desk and, with a heavy, self-suffering sigh, plopped her chin into her hands to stare daggers at the door, urging someone, anyone at all! to come through it by sheer power of will. 

Minutes passed. 

No one came. 

She heaved another drama-laden sigh and pushed away from her desk with a huff, then folded her arms across her chest and leaned back to stare at the ceiling. 

Molly was bored. 

Well, maybe not bored...restless. Or bored  _and_  restless. She didn't know how to describe the feeling of not wanting to sit still, to be on her feet and getting involved with anything and everything, to help out, to be doing  _something_ exciting!...but not knowing what that 'something' could possibly be.

Sherlock would know. 

John would just say she was pouting. Because he could be a real jerk that way, when he wanted to be. Completely uncalled for. 

...But so what if she was?! She didn't want to be here today. No new bodies had been brought in (which was technically a good thing, and Molly shouldn't feel put out about it, but...but it would have a least been something to do!!!), the ones they had were already being covered by other attendants (and she'd already been told off once today for hovering too much--John would have been right to say that she was sulking), and it was just...it was boring. BORING!

Molly gave the floor a good solid kick, making her chair spin. She steadied her gaze on a single focal point, a water stain on the ceiling, to keep herself from getting a dizzy...an old trick that Sherlock had told her about. She kicked a few more times, getting a good spin in, and then let the chair slow down to a lazy circle. 

Despite the focusing tip, she still got a bit light-headed... so, she used her foot to stop her chair (this time) and leaned over, keeping her head down until everything else followed suit and stopped spinning, as well.

She blinked down at the dull, used-to-be-white tile floor, taking stock of all the stains and knicks, pits and pockmarks and thought (what with being as bored as she was, after all), why not make a game out of it? You know...guessing how they might have happened, what made them, the way Sherlock did. 

Except, Molly wasn't nearly as imaginative as Sherlock, what with him being a bonafide detective and all while she...you know,  _wasn't._  So, most of her 'deductions' were about regular things being dropped or spilled by accident--if he'd been here, he prob'ly could have told her what the object was, how much it weighed, how high it was dropped from, the colour of the dropper's pants...like that one, that odd, pear-shaped purple stain: Sherlock would have said that Albert, the new tech with the bowl-shaped ginger hair, had been through with a blueberry pastry and had dropped it delicious-side down when he'd received and read a text about his mother's gardener's wife spilling the beans on their affair with each other and that the gardener was now steamrolling his way to the hospital with a rusty spade in tow. 

Or something else along those lines, whatever...the thing was, she could never think of things like that. But she  _could_ , however, picture it, and that's when Molly Hooper, sitting there with her head practically between her knees and ponytail flopped over into her face, started to giggle like a maniac. 

Damnit, she wanted to  _play!_

While she was bent over, Molly reached under her desk for her purse, where it was usually sat whenever she worked from her office. She dragged it over by the strap and unzipped it, getting giddier by the second as she fished around for her phone--

John had told her, very explicitly after their first 'playdate', that whenever she wanted and/or needed to come over and play, all she had to do was call (just to make sure they were home first), and she would be welcomed with open arms...and a warm bottle. 

She scrolled through her phone until she found John's number, then hit 'call' without hesitation. 

After two agonizingly slow rings that made Molly afraid that there wouldn't be an answer at all, he finally picked up. "Hello?"

Molly could hear the confusion in his voice, leaning towards concern, and wondered why...until she realised that John must not have been expecting her to ever call this time of day, during what should be her works hours. 

"...Hello?"

She also realised she hadn't said anything yet. "Uh, hi..." she answered in a tiny voice, with the sudden streak of boldness that pushed her into calling in the first place abandoning her. 

"Molly? Everything all right?"

"Hi, Unc'a Jawn," she said again, hunching her shoulders as the inexplicable shyness took over.

"Oh, it's  _you,_  cupcake," he answered warmly, without missing a beat (and a little sigh of relief mixed in, too). If she was calling him while little and wasn't in tears, it couldn't be anything too urgent. "What are you up to, Miss Missy?"

Molly giggled and twisted a lock of hair around her fingers; she loved all of the different nicknames John had for her, and sometimes they even made a game of how many he could fit in during one conversation (while Sherlock stood off in the background pretending to retch), which nearly always ended with Molly laughing so hard that her cheek muscles would ache for hours after. "Um, Unc'a Jawn? Um, can I, um..." She hesitated, unsure now if she should actually ask or not, because...well,what if Unc'a Jawn said 'no'?

If he did actually tell her 'no', Molly didn't think she would be able to keep from crying, purely out of disappointment. She was so  _bored!_  Bored to tears! Bored to  **death** , even! She didn't know if people could really die boredom, but there was always a first--!

"...Molly? Sweetheart, are you still there?"

Oops. She'd forgotten to continue the conversation she was having inside her head on the outside, too. "CanIcomeplayUnc'aJawn?"she babbled quickly, before she lost her nerve. 

There was a bit of quiet, and then John laughed into the phone...which sounded like a good enough sign for Molly! She gave an excited little wiggle in her seat, waiting for the 'yes' to follow. 

"Aren't you supposed to be working, little girl?"

Molly felt her bottom lip turn out, and she huffed into the phone. That hadn't been the answer that she wanted. " _Noooo!_ " She flopped backwards into her chair and drummed her heels against the floor; "There's nothing to  _dooooo!_ " she whinged. "An' everyone's mean an' bossy an' won't let me do anythin'!"

On the other end of the line, John bit his lip to keep from laughing and held his phone away from his ear.

Sherlock had taught Molly well. 

Once he'd gotten a grip on himself, John held the phone back up to his ear and cleared his throat. "Molly," he said firmly.

She continued to strop. "MOLLY," he said again, in his no-nonsense 'you're-this-close--to-losing-your-pants-Sherlock' tone.

Molly froze at the sound of John's voice, her kicking about stopping immediately, and sat there sniffling into her phone. 

John shook his head, grinning to himself; Molly had opened up so much, after so much coaxing, so much care, and patience...even listening to a mini-wobbler could put a smile on his face. "Listen, cupcake," he sighed. "I'm at work, and I can't leave right now."

Molly felt that lingering wave of disappointment hit her right in the pit of her belly and, sure enough, the beginnings of tears began to sting her eyes. "Oh.." Now she was going to have to sit here and listen to John tell her to wait until next weekend, then list all the reasons why...oh, she just couldn't  _stand_  the thought!

"But..."

' _But?'_  Her ears perked up and she stopped her sniffling. There was a 'but'?

"...Sherlock is still at home, and I know he'd just love to play!"

Molly held the phone to her ear and sat there, motionless...save for the rapid blinking. Her and Sherlock, by themselves? Playing? On their own? No Unc'a Jawn around? The thought had never crossed her mind before. "Sher'yock?" she asked, thinking that she'd possibly misunderstood. 

"Yes, Sherlock," John repeated. He'd become very used to repeating himself in the nicest, calmest way possible in recent years, after being up to his eyeballs in sensitive babies. "Do you want to go over and play, then we'll all have a nice dinner when I get home, yeah? Sound good, sweetheart?"

That sounded...well, that sounded wonderful!!! A beacon of warmth, giggles, and cuddles after a wasteland of bland, white(ish) tile, disinfectant, and formaldehyde! "Y'ah!" she agreed quickly, bouncing in her chair. 

She could hear John laughing over the phone. "Alright, alright...can you get there by yourself, or do I need to text Sherlock to come pick you up, pixie-pants?"

"Icandoit! Icandoit!" Molly babbled back, already stuffing her things back into her purse. 

"Slow down, slow down! Molly, listen to Uncle John....you HAVE to slow down, princess, or the cabbie's never going to understand you."

It was difficult, but Molly was able to collect herself enough to come across as a 'real' grown-up, at least to anyone who only gave her a casual glance...though,if they were to look twice and pay attention, they'd never miss the pure, giddy, childish glee bubbling just underneath the calm exterior. 

"Okay," John said, once he was absolutely sure that she could make her way to the flat with no trouble. "You go play with your Sherlock and have fun, and I'll see you both tonight. Be a good girl for him, yeah?"

"Y'ah, I will! P'omise!"

John laughed again...this girl was just too cute. "Alright sweetheart, I have to go. Be good," he said for a second time, adding a little extra emphasis. 

Molly was already heading out of her office door. "Okay Unc'a Jawn, I love you, bye-bye!" she said quickly. 

That put the biggest smile on John's face. "Love you too, honey...bye-bye. And be careful!" he added, right before hanging up. He was still beaming when he texted Sherlock and told him to expect a guest. A bubbly guest. 

And he was still grinning...very smugly, I might add...when he leaned back in his chair to relax for a minute, arms folded behind his head, pleased with himself. 

Sherlock was at home, all right. But what John had neglected to mention to Molly, was that the detective was very much in his 'big' mode today. So much so that, when John tried to leave for work that morning, Sherlock had come very close to picking him up and taking him right back into the bedroom for a nappy change first. And even when that had failed  _spectacularly_ , it hadn't stopped him from slipping a dummy into John's coat pocket during their goodbye-hug (he should have known something was fishy with that; Sherlock only initiated hugs when he was little, or when he was plotting something...sometimes both) But John had obliged him, assuming it was just part of his 'Daddy'-mood, and had hoped that it would be enough to keep Sherlock from showing up at the clinic later with the bloody nappy-bag!

Oh...Molly was going to be in for a  _surprise_  when she showed up. 

Eventually, after gloating so much that he was even starting to make  _himself_  sick, John sat up and started to get back to work...the papers weren't going to fill themselves out. But now, everything he did, he did with an extra bit of 'pep in his step'--he even started whistling a jaunty tune while he worked, and made a bet with himself between whom as going to call and complain first, and when.


	2. Bothersome begets Troublesome

Molly fidgeted in the backseat of the cab, her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap, her feet and knees bouncing impatiently...she'd managed to pull herself together long enough back at Bart's, and had compiled some kind of excuse that sounded realistic enough for leaving early (thought she had the distinct impression that they weren't all that put out by her leaving...certainly didn't break anyone's heart), but now that they were getting closer to Baker Street, it was getting harder to keep from bubbling (and babbling) over with excitement.

She turned and looked up to the front of the cab, trying to see what the fare was at so she could go ahead and collect it (plus a tip) from her purse (having the money at the ready meant less direct interaction with a stranger, which in Molly's current state, was for the best), when she found herself staring right into the driver's eyes--he'd been watching her in the rearview mirror.

Molly felt her face grow warm and knew immediately by the familiar sensation that she was moments away from a full- faced blush. She dropped her gaze in an instant and began to rifle through her purse as a distraction. _'Please don't say anything, don't say anything, don't say anything, **please** don't say anything...'_ she begged silently.

"Everythin' okay, miss?" the man finally asked, with what sounded to her like a genuine note of concern, rather than someone who was only poking their nose into someone else's business because they're bored.

Molly looked up at the mirror and into the man's lined, scruffy-bearded face, and forced a smile...a weak one, but still a smile. Maybe he would think she was ill and speed up. "Yes," she replied, without stammering, and that was apparently enough to satisfy the man; he stared for a moment longer in the mirror, dark eyes narrowing (in what Molly thought was a poor lackluster parody of Sherlock's 'I-know-you're-lying' gaze) before he thankfully looked back to the road with a small shrug.

Now that he was looking away, Molly tried to calm herself by breathing in through her nose as deeply (and quietly) as possible.

Why was she so nervous?! Granted, she wasn't _as_ nervous as she'd been for their first playdate, when her guts had been churning enough to make her feel physically ill, but the butterflies were definitely back and beating about her tummy wildly. And while she didn't feel like throwing up, she had already nervous wee'd twice before leaving Bart's, and yet was still currently pressing her thighs together to keep from piddling her underthings.

...A nappy didn't sound so bad right now.

And now that she'd thought about it, she couldn't un-think it--nappies. Another untouched milestone for her...she owned some, yes, but had never, ever tried to do one up by herself. Molly felt that putting a nappy on was someone else's job, someone in charge, and she was certainly not that.

At least, she ultimately didn't _want_ to be.

But being the one to put on her own nappy almost seemed like a cheat--not that she felt that everyone she saw who self-padded were cheating, God no! She _envied_ those fellow littles who could tape up in seconds flat and look perfect and cozy and secure...while she couldn't even _look_ at the lone, sad package of nappies she'd ordered ages ago without blushing furiously and, embarrassingly enough, getting a little shaky.

Speaking of the Devil--Molly's cheeks were starting to grow uncomfortably (but familiarly) hot, and she squirmed in her seat; she must be blazing red already,and she'd only been thinking about _wearing_ nappies, for Pete'sake! It's not as if she'd been thinking about being changed...!

...Oh, dear. That train of thought, had been a mistake.

Molly was sure that she squeaked and reached up to quickly cover her mouth. No, no...no-no-no-no! She couldn't think about that _here_ , not now! She needed to stop, to stop imagining herself wearing a soft, bulky nappy under her favorite cupcake onesie, thick enough to keep her legs from closing fully while someone's hand gently thunked against her backside to test if she was wet, and--!

Oh. Oh...no. Oh, _shit_.

"Miss, are you sure you're alright?"

There was a beat pause, and then she nodded dumbly.

Molly...had just wet a little.

Not a lot, it wouldn't be noticeable (she hoped!), but she had definitely felt a hot trickle before clenching everything that could be clenched down there as tightly as she could. She felt her face heat up even more; Molly hadn't known that that was even possible.

...Were they near Baker yet?! Where was that damned street!

Right on cue, as if it had been a big cosmic joke just to make her sweat a bit, the cab took one more turn and with a rush of relief (and nothing else!), she saw the sign for Speedy's looming up ahead. Beyond that, the door to her safehaven...Sher'yock and Unc'a Jawn's.

The cab edged over and came to a rolling stop at the curbside, right in front of 221 B's door, just a precious few feet away. The driver tossed out a number, and Molly fumbled around for her card instead of trying to count out correct change.It still felt like she mucked about with it for ages before she finally gripped it with clumsy fingers that felt too big to belong to her and handed it over without even knowing (or caring) what the final fare had been.

She was staring out of the window, eager to leave the suddenly too-cramped, too-stuffy cab and dash right up the stairs and into Sher'yocks' arms for a great big hug, when Molly became aware that the driver was still talking...trying to talk _to_ her, actually.

"--third person I've brought here this month," he was saying. And he was no longer watching her through the mirror; he was looking down at his meter instead, waiting for either cash or card. But even with only the partial profile of his face that was visible to her, Molly could still see the snide twist of his lip. " 'parently he's famous, or summ'it like that. D'unno why, he's always been a massive prick."

A rush of hot, searing anger flooded Molly's whole body. "He is _not_!" she snapped vehemently, and the fury behind her own voice shocked both the driver, who spun around to gape at her like a limp, long-dead fish, and herself. Or it would have shocked her, if the entirety of her attention wasn't focused on this...this _jerk_ talking about her Sher'yock like he knew him, and he didn't! He didn't even know...who did he think he was, talking that way!? He didn't know! "You don't even know him!" Molly spat, her cheeks flaming.

The man continued to gape at her until he collected his scattered wits about him, and then the condescending, derisive look returned to his face. "Sorry, love," he sneered at her. "Didn' know I was talkin' 'bout your boyfriend." There was a cruel arch to his eyebrow; "Y'do know he's a fag, right? With the little one?"

Molly's chest grew tight and her eyes widened, yet her vision reduced down to a mere pinhole, where this bastard's smug face sat at the end of a long, long tunnel.

Molly's hand left her purse, and began to draw back.

Despite being oblivious to her own intentions, the driver knew full well what a cocked arm meant, and his gaze on her hardened as he braced himself for--

There were several sharp raps at Molly's window right next to her head, startling her, and she whirled around...only to find herself staring right up into a certain detective's ominous-looking face.

The next thing Molly knew, she was out of the cab and had her arms clamped around Sherlock's waist in a way that surely must have been painful for him (though he showed no sign of such a thing), with her face pressed tightly to his chest. Behind her, while paying no mind to the vice-like grip that was threatening to cut off circulation to his kidneys, Sherlock was having a short, very tense-sounding conversation with the other man...Molly heard a door slam and, moments later, heard the cab speed away.

A long arm wrapped around her back and laid a hand on her shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. "...What did he say to you?"

Molly kept her face buried in his shirt, and shook her head. She didn't want to think about that disgusting man anymore, or the awful things he'd said.

"Molly...you were going to strike him."

She shook her head again, harder.

"Young lady, do not try to lie to me...it doesn't _work_."

She set her shoulders and gave a stomp with her foot; who was he kidding?! Sher'yock wasn't boss, he was just Sher'yock! She didn't want to talk about it, and he couldn't make her!

"Molly, look at me. Right now."

It was the way that the 'right now' had been said that compelled Molly to obey before she could think twice...not just the words on their own, no, or else her littlespace would be getting triggered every day (instead of just 'most' days), but it was the way they were said, the command without being commanded, the cool urging with a not-so-subtle hint of the power behind it, and underlying threat, a _warning_.

And that was why Molly found herself tilting her head back just enough to peer up at Sherlock while the lower half of her face stayed hidden against the buttons of his shirt (which is technically what she'd been told to do...she WAS looking at him now), and waited for whatever came next.

Sherlock stared back at her, brows lowered in concentration and eyes darting back and forth over her face, taking in every seemingly inconsequential detail until Molly began to fidget under the intense scrutinization, and looked away.

It had still been long enough for Sherlock to gleen everything he needed to know from her. "You shouldn't have come by yourself," he said at last, and sighed. "I should have escorted you."

Molly, still overwhelmed and trying to deal with the leftover surge of anger at that... _foul_ excuse of a man and the things he'd said, felt another warm flush come up in her chest. It was different from before, she didn't know how--but she was still feeling prickly, and she didn't like the way Sher'yock sounded like he was bigger than her. "Did it myself," she mumbled, hiding her face again.

"Yes...yes you did. But little girl's shouldn't be out on their own and conversing with strangers, either."

Molly's head snapped up, her face drawing into an angry pout. Who was he, calling her a 'little girl'?! He was just as little, too...just as little as she was! "I did it!" she insisted again, loudly.

The crease between Sherlock's eyebrows deepened as he frowned at her. "Lower your voice, Molly."

An uncomfortable bristling sensation crept up the back of Molly's neck; the near-disastrous encounter with the cabbie had really rustled her, and now all she wanted was a good argument to dispel the icky feeling. "You're not boss!" she retorted, scowling right back at him.

Heated as she was, little Molly failed to notice the subtle-straightening of Sherlock's spine as he squared his shoulders...nor did she notice the tightening of his jaw. But what she _did_ notice, only because she was staring directly at them, was the dangerous glint in his eye:

Big Molly would have already noticed the glaring red flags Sherlock was giving off, and the resulting alarm bells in her head would have let her know to adjust her attitude accordingly…

...but big Molly was not here.

When Sherlock spoke again, the soft, almost serene tone of voice that came out of such a hardened, severe face was eerie. “…We’ll continue this discussion upstairs,” he said quietly.

Suddenly, she wasn't as eager to go into the flat as she had been only minutes ago. She shook her head and folded her arms over her chest; "No!"

"We're going upstairs, Molly," he said again in that same, cool way, devoid of any recognizable emotion, and reached out to take her arm.

In a completely non-Molly way, Molly Hooper whined and twisted away from the detective before he could touch her and dodged around him, then stomped through the front door and up the stairs, glaring daggers the whole way.

Sherlock remained standing at the curb, hands on his hips, and watched the huffy little girl (with an attitude that was quite unsuited to someone of her small stature; the similarities between her and another small yet boisterous little one he knew were uncanny...must be a short-person thing) barge up the stairs with an arched eyebrow. He shook his head incredulously, and started up after her.

Molly stopped just inside the door of the flat, arms still folded angrily, chin tucked down, bottom lip jutting out...this was not the way she'd envisioned her day going. There was supposed to be playing--Sher'yock was supposed to have been waiting for her, they were supposed to be dragging his toys all over, they were supposed to be running around the flat, chasing each other, they were supposed to be making messes, supposed to be doing everything they weren't allowed to before Unc'a Jawn arrived home, supposed to be laughing, supposed to be having fun!...

An' yet here he was, actin' like, like...like _he_ was Unc'a Jawn!

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Sherlock coming up the stairs behind her.

"Molly."

Molly hunched her shoulders and clutched herself tighter, then shook her head again.

Sherlock sighed, and she felt a small hint of satisfaction from knowing she was aggravating him. "Molly... _go_ inside, and sit down," he said, with an extraordinary show of patience. And that patience of his only served to make her madder.

Sherlock stepped around her and placed a hand on her lower back, urging her forward.

Well, Molly was _not_ having that! With a loud "NO!", she wrenched herself away and shoved his arm aside. Why was he being this way?! "No no no no no no NO!" she repeated, stomping with both feet and balling her fists while slinging them through the air.

Over the sounds of a near-Sherlockian level stropping, there was a loud thud as Molly's purse slid off her arm and hit the floor, sending the contents scattering every which way.

The detective only gaped at her, his eyes so wide that his brow nearly disappeared into his hairline...but the shock didn't last long. While it was surprising to see come from such a petite (the 'it-must-be-a-short-person-thing' argument was looking more and more likely), normally reserved person, it was not Sherlock's first rodeo. His expression darkened, and he scowled down at her; "Molly!...One!" he barked.

Molly jumped and came down heavily with both feet. " **NO!** "

Sherlock brought himself to his full six-foot-high frame and decided that if Molly wanted a shouting match, well then, she would get one. " **TWO!** "

Molly stopped her shouting and spun around, already wearing her most thunderous glare for daring to raise his voice at her...only to have it wither away in the face of Sherlock Holmes' own patented ruthless, piercing stare.

Little Molly blanched, and tried to pretend that she didn't feel the need for a wee again.

Perhaps shouting 'no' over and over hadn't been the best course of action.

Sherlock waited for a full minute, his gaze boring directly into Molly, watching her start to squirm under the intense scrutiny. Soon, it became more than she wanted to handle; "Sh-sher'yock?" she stammered, now that all the wind had been knocked from her sails.

His lips pressed into a thin line, and he shook his head. "Mm-mm, no, that's not going to work. Naughty step, now."

Molly's heart cracked right down the middle at those words. Naughty step? He was...he was _punishing_ her? "Wh-what? But, but...but Sher'yock!" she pleaded, her voice going wobbly.

"Naughty step." Sherlock stepped forward and again, took her by the arm to lead her to the staircase...and this time, she let him. "You're not going to shout at me, and you're certainly not going to _shove_ me, young lady!...you KNOW better than to behave that way!"

Molly's head was spinning as Sherlock scolded her and kept tugging her forward; she could hardly get her bearings. She was getting a time-out? Straightaway? And Sher'yock...was putting her there?

Her head was still swimming, trying to make sense of just how she'd gone from being bouncy and thrilled to the bits after talking to Unc'a Jawn, to Sher'yock turning her around and planting her on the third step up, the creaky one. "Fifteen minutes," he said. "Then we talk." He began to walk away.

The sight of him leaving, of him actually walking away, with is back to her, made Molly realize that yes, she was being left behind, _alone_ , and no, she didn't want to be. She didn't want to stomp and shout anymore, she didn't want to be mad at Sher'yock anymore, she didn't want to be by herself, she...she...

With tears welling in her eyes, Molly got up and darted after Sherlock, catching up with him quickly. She wrapped her arms around his waist and squeezed tight while pressing her face against the middle of his back, babbling furiously about how sorry she was.

Had he not heard the stair creak before the moment Molly stood up, before the stampede of footsteps rushing at him, Sherlock might very well have ended up landing flat on his face. As it was, he still grunted and lurched forward, even after bracing himself for the impact. "Molly, no-no..." he said, and started to unwind from her grasp by taking her wrists and peeling them away.

"I'm _soooorrrryyyy_!" she wailed as he turned around to face her, and went to attach herself to his front...but she couldn't. He was still holding her away. " _Sher'yoooock_!"

"And we'll talk about that...in fifteen minutes," he said calmly, ignoring Molly's heartfelt pleading, and walked her backwards towards the stairs.

However calm he was, though, it did nothing to quell Molly's fit. Quite the opposite, in fact, as it finally started to dawn on her that a time-out was inevitable now--it was really happening, no matter how much she howled and cried, or not. "But I'm _SOOOOOORRRRYYYY_!"

Sherlock didn't reply the second time. He was not a man fond of repeating himself.

When the backs of Molly's heels bumped against the ledge of the bottom step, he held fast to keep her from losing her balance and slowly sat her down, with a steady stream of her bawling and begging in his ear the whole while. "You are going to sit here," he said, leaning in close to be heard above all the caterwauling, "--until I come and get you. If your bum leaves this step again before I allow it..."

Molly heard him pause and peered up at him, her whole body shuddering with big, chest-hitching sniffles.

"...I'm going to spank it."

It too a full minute for Molly to register what Sherlock had just said. He, he _wouldn't_...she had never, _ever_...that was...he couldn't!

...Could he?

She looked up into his face, taking in his deathly serious expression.

He could. And he would.

Molly stared at the detective's narrow as he retreated for the second time, but it wasn't until he turned the corner to the kitchen and walked completely out of sight that the tears returned. Her vision blurred as she tucked her legs up close and hugged them to her chest, then buried her face against her knees and sobbed.

Today was not turning out how she'd wanted it to be.

**Author's Note:**

> As some of you may have noticed, there were certain spacing issues throughout the story, where some words were cut off in the middle and started on the next line, etc...I saw it, and tried several times to correct it, and couldn't. 
> 
> Sorry about that. If anyone has any suggestions on how to fix it, I'd be really appreciative!


End file.
